Shakespeare's First Folio Part 413

Rich. If I should be? I had rather be a Pedler: Farre be it from my heart, the thought thereof

Qu. As little ioy (my Lord) as you suppose You should enioy, were you this Countries King, As little ioy you may suppose in me, That I enioy, being the Queene thereof

Q.M. A little ioy enioyes the Queene thereof, For I am shee, and altogether ioylesse: I can no longer hold me patient.

Heare me, you wrangling Pyrates, that fall out, In sharing that which you haue pill'd from me: Which off you trembles not, that lookes on me?

If not, that I am Queene, you bow like Subiects; Yet that by you depos'd, you quake like Rebells.

Ah gentle Villaine, doe not turne away

Rich. Foule wrinckled Witch, what mak'st thou in my sight?

Q.M. But repet.i.tion of what thou hast marr'd, That will I make, before I let thee goe

Rich. Wert thou not banished, on paine of death?

Q.M. I was: but I doe find more paine in banishment, Then death can yeeld me here, by my abode.

A Husband and a Sonne thou ow'st to me, And thou a Kingdome; all of you, allegeance: This Sorrow that I haue, by right is yours, And all the Pleasures you vsurpe, are mine

Rich. The Curse my n.o.ble Father layd on thee, When thou didst Crown his Warlike Brows with Paper, And with thy scornes drew'st Riuers from his eyes, And then to dry them, gau'st the Duke a Clowt, Steep'd in the faultlesse blood of prettie Rutland: His Curses then, from bitternesse of Soule, Denounc'd against thee, are all falne vpon thee: And G.o.d, not we, hath plagu'd thy b.l.o.o.d.y deed

Qu. So iust is G.o.d, to right the innocent

Hast. O, 'twas the foulest deed to slay that Babe, And the most mercilesse, that ere was heard of

Riu. Tyrants themselues wept when it was reported

Dors. No man but prophecied reuenge for it

Buck. Northumberland, then present, wept to see it

Q.M. What? were you snarling all before I came, Ready to catch each other by the throat, And turne you all your hatred now on me?

Did Yorkes dread Curse preuaile so much with Heauen, That Henries death, my louely Edwards death, Their Kingdomes losse, my wofull Banishment, Should all but answer for that peeuish Brat?

Can Curses pierce the Clouds, and enter Heauen?

Why then giue way dull Clouds to my quick Curses.

Though not by Warre, by Surfet dye your King, As ours by Murther, to make him a King.

Edward thy Sonne, that now is Prince of Wales, For Edward our Sonne, that was Prince of Wales, Dye in his youth, by like vntimely violence.

Thy selfe a Queene, for me that was a Queene, Out-liue thy glory, like my wretched selfe: Long may'st thou liue, to wayle thy Childrens death, And see another, as I see thee now, Deck'd in thy Rights, as thou art stall'd in mine.

Long dye thy happie dayes, before thy death, And after many length'ned howres of griefe, Dye neyther Mother, Wife, nor Englands Queene.

Riuers and Dorset, you were standers by, And so wast thou, Lord Hastings, when my Sonne Was stab'd with b.l.o.o.d.y Daggers: G.o.d, I pray him, That none of you may liue his naturall age, But by some vnlook'd accident cut off

Rich. Haue done thy Charme, y hateful wither'd Hagge

Q.M. And leaue out thee? stay Dog, for y shalt heare me.

If Heauen haue any grieuous plague in store, Exceeding those that I can wish vpon thee, O let them keepe it, till thy sinnes be ripe, And then hurle downe their indignation On thee, the troubler of the poore Worlds peace.

The Worme of Conscience still begnaw thy Soule, Thy Friends suspect for Traytors while thou liu'st, And take deepe Traytors for thy dearest Friends: No sleepe close vp that deadly Eye of thine, Vnlesse it be while some tormenting Dreame Affrights thee with a h.e.l.l of ougly Deuills.

Thou eluish mark'd, abortiue rooting Hogge, Thou that wast seal'd in thy Natiuitie The slaue of Nature, and the Sonne of h.e.l.l: Thou slander of thy heauie Mothers Wombe, Thou loathed Issue of thy Fathers Loynes, Thou Ragge of Honor, thou detested- Rich. Margaret

Q.M. Richard

Rich. Ha

Q.M. I call thee not

Rich. I cry thee mercie then: for I did thinke, That thou hadst call'd me all these bitter names

Q.M. Why so I did, but look'd for no reply.

Oh let me make the Period to my Curse

Rich. 'Tis done by me and ends in Margaret

Qu. Thus haue you breath'd your Curse against your self

Q.M. Poore painted Queen, vain flourish of my fortune, Why strew'st thou Sugar on that Bottel'd Spider, Whose deadly Web ensnareth thee about?

Foole, foole, thou whet'st a Knife to kill thy selfe: The day will come, that thou shalt wish for me, To helpe thee curse this poysonous Bunch-backt Toade

Hast. False boding Woman, end thy frantick Curse, Least to thy harme, thou moue our patience

Q.M. Foule shame vpon you, you haue all mou'd mine

Ri. Were you wel seru'd, you would be taught your duty

Q.M. To serue me well, you all should do me duty, Teach me to be your Queene, and you my Subiects: O serue me well, and teach your selues that duty

Dors. Dispute not with her, shee is lunaticke

Q.M. Peace Master Marquesse, you are malapert, Your fire-new stampe of Honor is scarce currant.

O that your yong n.o.bility could iudge What 'twere to lose it, and be miserable.

They that stand high, haue many blasts to shake them, And if they fall, they dash themselues to peeces

Rich. Good counsaile marry, learne it, learne it Marquesse

Dor. It touches you my Lord, as much as me

Rich. I, and much more: but I was borne so high: Our ayerie buildeth in the Cedars top, And dallies with the winde, and scornes the Sunne

Mar. And turnes the Sun to shade: alas, alas, Witnesse my Sonne, now in the shade of death, Whose bright out-s.h.i.+ning beames, thy cloudy wrath Hath in eternall darknesse folded vp.

Your ayery buildeth in our ayeries Nest: O G.o.d that seest it, do not suffer it, As it is wonne with blood, lost be it so

Buc. Peace, peace for shame: If not, for Charity

Mar. Vrge neither charity, nor shame to me: Vncharitably with me haue you dealt, And shamefully my hopes (by you) are butcher'd.

My Charity is outrage, Life my shame, And in that shame, still liue my sorrowes rage

Buc. Haue done, haue done

Mar. O Princely Buckingham, Ile kisse thy hand, In signe of League and amity with thee: Now faire befall thee, and thy n.o.ble house: Thy Garments are not spotted with our blood: Nor thou within the compa.s.se of my curse

Buc. Nor no one heere: for Curses neuer pa.s.se The lips of those that breath them in the ayre

Mar. I will not thinke but they ascend the sky, And there awake G.o.ds gentle sleeping peace.

O Buckingham, take heede of yonder dogge: Looke when he fawnes, he bites; and when he bites, His venom tooth will rankle to the death.